


Doubt Truth to be a Liar

by Luthien



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Food, POV Multiple, Truth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28384392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: Jaime Lannister MP is the son of the prime minister and, some say, a future prime minister himself. Brienne is his new girlfriend - or so she (almost) claims.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 103
Kudos: 210
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange 2020





	1. Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EleanorHugo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EleanorHugo/gifts).



> This story is many people's fault. First, slipsthrufingers for decreeing that there would be a chill fest at all. Next on the list is my dear friend Nym, for suggesting this particular spin on this trope. Next is Firesign, for suggesting both the political angle AND the title (just be grateful I didn't go with her other title suggestion). And Nire and Samirant were in there, too, cheerleading and handholding as always, so I guess I can't really blame them.
> 
> Any and all mistakes and glitches are, of course, my own.
> 
> To absolutely no one's surprise, the rating is REALLY likely to go up before this is done.
> 
> Eleanor, I really hope you like light and frothy - and food themes - because at this point in the year it's all I've got left! (Seriously, I do hope you enjoy! :)

"How much is he paying you?" Sansa asks bluntly, pouring herself a cup of coffee. The morning light shines in through the kitchen window of their King's Landing apartment and splashes a single bright streak across the marble countertop. Sansa isn't used to seeing the sun from this angle in here, but then Brienne probably isn't, either. They're both up more than usually early this morning: Sansa because she barely slept for wondering and worrying about Brienne after she turned up at the parliamentary ball last night on Jaime Lannister's arm—and then disappeared for the rest of the night!—and Brienne because she only arrived home with the dawn.

"What do you mean?" Brienne asks in return, her tone almost serious, _almost_ as if she truly doesn't know why Sansa's asking the question. But she does, of course she does. Brienne's a terrible liar—Sansa already knew that—but the amusement lurking in her very blue eyes right now gives her away even quicker than usual. She looks away, clearly not able to hold Sansa's gaze for long, as she turns her attention to the piece of dry toast that's lying on the plate in front of her and cuts it in half.

"Just what I said," Sansa says. "How much is he paying you? What did he promise you to get you to cooperate?"

"Um, lunch," Brienne says, picking up a piece of toast and biting into it.

"Don't joke, Brienne. This is serious."

"I'm not joking." Brienne sets the toast back down on her plate. "Jaime promised me lunch today if I went to the parliamentary ball with him last night. He knows it's not my sort of thing."

" _You_ know that's not what I'm asking about!" Sansa says, through slightly gritted teeth. She can't work out why Brienne is being so deliberately obtuse. She takes a sip of her coffee, forcing it down so fast that it almost scalds her oesophagus.

"No, I really don't, Sansa," Brienne says, but the amusement is still there in her eyes, and touching the corners of her lips now—and does she really think she can deceive _Sansa_ , who knows her so well?

"I can't believe you did it just for the ball gown. You _hate_ dressing up."

"That's why he's buying me lunch. To make up for my having to wear the ball gown."

Sansa stares at Brienne, hard, and doesn't say anything.

"He doesn't really have to, though," Brienne continues. "He's already apologised that there was no option but the dress because he didn't give me any real notice, and he's promised that next year I can wear trousers if I want." Brienne grins suddenly. "I guess he just wants an excuse to have lunch with me."

"What are you talking about?" Sansa asks, meeting Brienne's grin with a frown. "You won't _be_ there next year—unless he's offered you, what? A million gold dragons or something to pretend to be his girlfriend?" She sets her mug down on the countertop with such a loud clunk that she's vaguely surprised to see that it's still in one piece. Coffee has sloshed up and over the side, but Sansa ignores it.

"I'm not pretending," Brienne says, and now her smile is turning very slightly strained. But again, she can't hold Sansa's gaze for long. She turns away, reaching over to the sink for a sponge, and wipes up the spilt coffee.

"Look," says Sansa. "I get that you've probably signed some sort of ironclad non-disclosure agreement, but you don't have to actually lie to me, do you?"

"I'm not lying," Brienne says. "I'm just telling you the truth." The amusement is back in her eyes, and they shine even brighter with laughter as she says the last word, and honestly, Sansa could just… Well, no. She doesn't wish actual _harm_ on Brienne, though a small part of her would dearly love to strangle her very good friend, just a teensy tiny bit, but she really wishes Brienne would be straight with her.

Sansa watches as Brienne fills the electric kettle with water and sets it to boil before reaching into the cupboard for a mug and the packet of teabags, and then tries another tack. "I know you don't like him. I remember how much you objected when Mum asked you to drive him from Winterfell down to King's Landing. You _argued_ with _my mother_ , for hours. I've never seen you really disagree with her about _anything_ , before or since, but that day… You didn't want to have anything to do with him. You told her that you _despised_ him. You're not going to deny that, are you?"

Brienne sighs, and the expression on her face can only be called rueful. "No, I'm not going to deny that," she says, and just for a second Sansa thinks she's won, but then Brienne continues, "It's not true to say that I don't like him, though, Sansa. I _didn't_ like him— _didn't_ being the operative word here. I didn't know him when we started out on that trip, but it took a lot longer than it should have, and we wound up going through a lot together, so by the end of it… Well."

"By the end of it, he'd discovered your price." Sansa can't quite keep the bitterness out of her tone. "You should be careful, Brienne. You know what they say about a Lannister always paying his debts."

"It's not a question of either of us owing the other anything," Brienne says, very gently, as if she's the one who's trying to get through to Sansa, and not the other way around.

Sansa wants to believe her. She almost, _almost_ believes her. But then that smile touches Brienne's lips again, amused and ever so slightly secretive, and Sansa knows that Brienne is not being honest with her. It's almost impossible to believe, the idea that the normally painfully truthful, straightforward Brienne should lie to her, but she is—even if it's technically more of a sin of omission than a straight out lie. She hasn't actually claimed that she's Jaime Lannister's girlfriend. Not quite. Not yet.

Sansa shouldn't push her into saying something that both of them will probably regret at some point. She shouldn't, and yet she finds that she's opening her mouth anyway, and then the words come out: "He's just doing it to annoy his father. Tywin Lannister was planning for Jaime to marry Margaery Tyrell. She'd make the perfect political wife, and everyone knows that his father intends for Jaime to be prime minister one day, just like Tywin and who knows how many other Lannisters before him. Everyone was expecting it. It was all over the gossip sites, and then Jaime…"

"Then Jaime disappeared, and wound up at Winterfell, and the next week Margaery Tyrell was very publicly dating Renly Baratheon. Yes, I was there, Sansa. I remember," Brienne says, clearly striving hard to keep her voice level and calm.

"Well?" Sansa asks, picking up her mug again. "Are you going to pretend that you don't see it?" She sips her coffee—now, thankfully, just that little bit cooler—and tries for nonchalance.

"What? That I'm not Margaery Tyrell, or anything like her? You're saying that I don't look or act or _exist_ like Margaery Tyrell, and that's why Jaime wants to be seen with me?" Brienne isn't amused at all any more. Her lips are pinched so hard that they look bloodless.

Sansa winces at that, because now that Brienne's stated it so baldly it sounds more than a little unkind. But it's not like Sansa made it up. She's not the one who's using Brienne to try to make a very public point to Tywin Lannister.

"I'm just saying to _please_ be careful, Brienne." Sansa bites her lip, unhappy. She means this just as much as everything else that she's said this morning. "I don't want to see you get hurt in the crossfire in some Lannister civil war."

Brienne smiles again, but this time there's no amusement lurking in the depths of her blue eyes, nor any secrets. This smile is as sincere as the hand that closes over Sansa's on the countertop. "You don't need to worry about me, Sansa, but I appreciate that you do. You're a good friend. I'm very aware of that."

"But not enough to take heed of my warning," Sansa says.

"No, not enough for that," Brienne agrees. There's a quiet 'ding' as the kettle reaches the boil and turns itself off. Brienne reaches for it and pours the hot water over her teabag. She's silent for a moment after she returns the kettle to its base, before looking Sansa right in the eyes and telling her, "One day you'll see. Maybe one day not too long from now. I hope you'll be able to deal with it okay, Sansa. I really do."

The scent of mint fills the small kitchen. Sansa watches for a moment as Brienne jiggles the teabag, and then drops it in the recycling container before taking a sip from her mug, but she doesn't say anything else. That, it seems, is that, at least as far as Brienne is concerned.

There doesn't seem to be any point in even trying to prolong the conversation. Not right now, anyway.

"I'd better have a shower and get ready for work," Sansa says.

"Don't use all the hot water. I'll be right in as soon as you're finished," Brienne says, sipping her tea and eyeing Sansa mock-balefully over the rim of her mug.

"Would I do that to you?" Sansa says, and she can't help but grin. It's happened before, and no doubt will happen again.

" _Yes_ ," Brienne says, very, very sincerely.

They're both grinning as Sansa gets up and heads out of the room—but Sansa's smile is gone before she even reaches the bathroom door. She hopes to all the gods that Brienne knows what she's doing. Whatever the end result of whatever it is that Brienne's trying so inexpertly to lie about, Sansa will make sure that she's there for her when the time comes, anyway.

It's the least a friend can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More coming soon...


	2. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne meets Jaime for lunch after an eventful morning.

Brienne arrives first at the table that Jaime has booked in the central courtyard at Bar Publique, an institution amongst King's Landing's political class, being as it is only a stone's throw from the Red Keep and the House, and also much more of a restaurant than the name might suggest. She's not surprised Jaime isn't here yet; she knew what he had planned for today and she always thought that his intention of getting from Parliament House to here by 12.30 on a day like this was optimistic, to say the very least. She's been keeping a close eye on the political liveblog in _the King's Landing Times_ all morning and what's been going down in the parliament today sounds like… well, an utter shit show, not to put too fine a point on it. 

Brienne declines the waiter's offer of the wine list, and instead asks for a glass of sparkling water. It's a warm day, and only going to get hotter. She takes out her phone, opens the WBC app to the news channel, and Tywin Lannister's face is the first thing she sees. He's holding a media conference—which must mean that Jaime's is over at last—and his face is white, lips held together in a very firm line when he's not talking, and voice quiet to the point of viciousness when he is.

To say that Jaime's move has taken his father by surprise would not be entirely true. Tywin Lannister must have known that something like this was coming, or, at least, he _should_ have known, but clearly Jaime's timing is a complete shock. It's the morning after the annual ball, a night when politicians and journalists alike dress up to the nines and smile for the cameras, dance, let their hair down, and generally drink so much that all plotting—mostly—ceases until the hangovers have worn off the next day.

Jaime never was more than a social drinker, though. His father should have remembered that.

Brienne's water arrives. The waiter unscrews the small bottle for her and pours its contents into the glass beside it. She thanks him, turns off the news, and closes her eyes as she takes the first sip, feeling the bubbles tickle her throat going down before settling in her stomach. The fizzy water eases some of the sick tension that's been her constant companion all morning since she got into the cab outside Jaime's apartment building in the last darkness before the dawn, and she sighs.

There's a commotion outside, shouted questions and swearing and the sounds of a short scuffle, followed by the slamming of the restaurant's front door.

Brienne doesn't look around. She doesn't even open her eyes. Instead, she lets out a long, slow breath. _Calm_ , she tells herself, _calm_. When at last she opens her eyes, she's quite unsurprised to find Jaime standing in front of her.

He looks as ridiculously handsome as ever in his beautifully tailored charcoal grey suit, golden hair a little disarranged, the expression in his green eyes… stressed. The strain of what he's done today, the irrevocable break he's just made, shows clearly on his face, but he smiles at her and, taking the seat opposite, says, "It's done."

"I know," Brienne says. "You've been on the news."

"Really?" Jaime raises his eyebrows, but his smile turns rather more humorous. 

"You got nearly everyone," she says. "Marbrand's not a surprise, or Stokeworth, or even the Freys—though I'd keep a close eye on them—but Bracken _and_ Blackwood? And _your uncle_?" Brienne shakes her head, a small, disbelieving smile on her lips. "I'd love to know how you managed that."

"Tyrion," Jaime says.

Brienne knows that's part of it, but she also knows that he's selling himself short. Tyrion might be the master of every backroom deal, every wily plot and strategy, but he doesn't inspire loyalty the way Jaime does—when he can be bothered to put his mind to it.

Jaime reaches out with no warning, and covers Brienne's hand with his own, there, right there in front of her, where it's lying on the table beside her phone. His smile has turned brilliant as he gazes suddenly into her eyes.

"Olyvar Waters, one of Littlefinger's people at _the Oldtown Post_ ," he murmurs through barely-moving lips. "Over there by the bar. Don't look."

He doesn't need to tell Brienne not to look. She already knows better. Instead, she gazes back at Jaime, trying to play the devoted, besotted political support and other half. It's not a role that she's cut out for, and she suspects that the smile on her face looks pasted on at best, and more like a ghastly rictus at worst. 

She blinks as a camera flashes nearby, again and then again. Jaime turns his head, feigning irritation, but the maitre d' is already on his way to have a word with Olyvar Waters' cameraman. Spaces like Publique, despite its name, are meant to be neutral ground. They're meant to be the sorts of places in which the old-fashioned gentlemen's agreements between politicians and the media still hold some sort of sway. Even when that politician is named Lannister, and even when he's on his way to bringing down the government headed by another Lannister.

Jaime had counted on Littlefinger not being any sort of gentleman when he'd made their lunch reservation here, timed to put himself and Brienne in the public—or publique—spotlight right after the events of the morning had played themselves out. And, as Brienne has come to understand more and more in the time she's known him, Jaime is invariably right when he makes that sort of call. So she plays her part, and Jaime plays his, and the cameraman, all unknowing, plays his as well.

The waiter arrives with menus, and the wine list, which Jaime waves away without even glancing at. Like Brienne, he orders a drink, but his is a double whisky on the rocks. They're perusing their menus when Olyvar Waters wanders up to their table and pulls up a chair.

"So, what's the story?" he asks without any sort of preamble.

"I could have sworn you were at my news conference earlier. Do you have a twin I don't know about?" Jaime replies coolly, with a supercilious arch of one eyebrow.

"No, not that." Olyvar Waters waves a dismissive hand, the one that isn't holding a whisky glass. "I've got Ros looking into that. She's very determined. Nearly as determined as me. Who knows what she'll find once she really starts digging." He grins a lazy, insolent grin. He's not quite as good-looking as Jaime, but he's pretty enough, in a sleazy sort of way, that he's clearly become used to using the blond hair, blue eyes and boyish grin as a short-cut when he wants people to cooperate with him—or, at least, to get them to let slip a detail or two that they really, really shouldn't. "No," he says again, "not the _politics_. The other stuff. What's that all about?" His gaze moves, no longer lazy but razor sharp, to Brienne. "Though something tells me if we dig down far enough we'll find that that's about the politics, too."

"Aren't I allowed to have a private life?" Jaime asks, deceptively mildly.

Olyvar's grin is back, turning into something closer to genuine amusement. "Oh, Jaime. You should know better than that. You're not just a politician, you're a Lannister. You know what that means." Abruptly, the grin leaves his face. "The timing was pretty interesting, with hindsight. You show up at the ball with your new… girl." He looks Brienne up and down slowly, insultingly, or at least looks up and down at as much of her as can be seen above the tabletop. 

Brienne feels the heat rush into her cheeks, and fights the urge to fold her arms across her chest. "I'm not a _girl_ ," she says coldly.

"If you want me to answer any questions at all— _ever_ —you'll think very carefully about what you say next," Jaime says, almost— _almost_ —conversationally. The look in his eyes is even colder than Brienne's tone a moment ago, though, and for the first time ever since she's known him, Jaime truly reminds her of his father.

It's sort of ironic that she should see Tywin in him today, of all days.

Olyvar looks Jaime right in the eyes—he's not a coward, Brienne will grant him that much—but after a moment he shrugs. "Okay, whatever. It doesn't change the fact that she works for Catelyn Stark, and that for the past month she’s shared a flat here in King's Landing with Cat Stark's daughter—oh, yes, my eyebrows rose when we discovered that little titbit— _or_ that the two of you had kept the little detail that you even knew each other mighty quiet until last night." He pauses to take a deep sip from the glass in his hand. "Convenient, that—that you made such a splash in the headlines with your personal life last night that no one looked very hard to see if there might have been something quite different going on at the same time." He takes another sip. "How am I doing so far?"

Jaime does something with his upper lip, then. A very slight, contemptuous curl. A _sneer_. It's the most patrician facial expression Brienne's ever seen in her life. "Really, Olyvar? Conspiracy theories? And to think I had thought better of you than that."

"I call it as I see it," Olyvar says, setting his glass down on the table. "And what I see is a plot that stretches from King's Landing to Winterfell and back. Cat Stark got Manderly to come over to your side, didn't she? And the other northerners?"

"Cat Stark was my hostess at Winterfell, briefly, some months ago. Apart from that, we've never had a lot to do with each other."

"Not in person, no. She's stayed put up in the frozen north since she lost Ned. That's common knowledge. But she was always the power behind the throne with Ned Stark the whole time he was in politics—or the brains, anyway." Olyvar lets out a short bark of derisive laughter, and Brienne's fingers curl into a fist, the nails digging into her palm. "So when I realised that she sent one of her people with you when you left Winterfell, it made me wonder." He glances at Brienne again. "Convenient, to suddenly fall in love _right now_."

"Who says we fell in love right now?" Jaime asks. "We might have been an item for months."

"Might have been—but why hide it? Unless there was something else to hide."

"And again I ask: aren't I allowed to have a private life?" Jaime says.

"You already know the answer to that." Olyvar isn't smiling. The look on his face isn't malicious, though—just completely serious.

Jaime considers Olyvar for a moment, calmly, dispassionately—or at least so it would seem to anyone watching from even a short distance—and then he says, "It's been… instructive chatting with you, Olyvar, as always, but if you're quite finished now, Brienne and I would like to get on with our lunch. _Alone_."

Olyvar smirks. "Who am I to get in the way of True Love?" He drains his glass and sets it back down on the table before getting to his feet. "Thanks for the chat." He nods to Jaime and then Brienne, but, as he turns away he stops, as if he's just remembered something. Even Brienne can tell that it's an entirely calculated move, so she braces herself for one last little sting in the tail. It turns out that there's no sting, though, but just the simple truth: "Good luck with the new political party, Jaime. You're going to need it." And then Olyvar Waters walks away without a backward glance.

The waiter hurries over with Jaime's whisky then—Brienne gets the distinct impression that he's been waiting for Jaime's conversation with Olyvar to conclude before coming anywhere near their table—and asks if they're ready to order.

"Give us just a minute?" Brienne says, and flips open her menu.

Jaime looks over his, frowning slightly at the options, before setting it down and reaching for Brienne's hand again. His palm is warm and surprisingly soft as he strokes the back of her hand a moment, and murmurs, "Well, he was faster off the mark that I was willing to give him credit for, but we always knew that people were going to start putting two and two together once the dust from today started to settle."

"Yes," Brienne says just as quietly, glancing down at their hands a moment before looking up to meet Jaime's gaze. He's staring very intently at her. "He didn't work out all of it, though."

"No, he didn't work out all of it," Jaime agrees. The smile on his face now isn't the dazzling one from before, when he knew the camera was on him. 

Brienne takes her hand back and looks down at the menu. "We should order," she says.

"We should," Jaime says. "The octopus sounds good."

"Ugh," Brienne says, barely repressing a shudder, all of the morning's sick tension rushing back to her stomach.

"Or perhaps _not_ the octopus," Jaime says. 

"It reminds me too much of the Greyjoys," Brienne says.

Jaime says nothing—though there is an awful lot he _could_ say about the Greyjoys—but instead takes a sip of his whisky at last, and when Brienne finally settles on the chicken, he beckons the waiter over to take their order.

Outside, the reporters gather, waiting. Brienne knows it, knows that this day is very far from over—knows that right now they're in the eye of the storm. But there's nothing she can do about it—any of it—but let it play itself out, so she sips her water and smiles at Jaime and waits for lunch to arrive.


	3. Afternoon Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow conducts an interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've been unwell.

Jon's only been to King's Landing a couple of times before, but he finds the hotel without any problem. It's hard to miss, there at the foot of Visenya's Hill, huge and swanky, and a familiar sight from at least a dozen movies that have been shot in the capital over the years.

Jon half-expects that they'll take one look at him with his shaggy hair and in his well-worn jeans, and t-shirt of an equally faded shade of black, and simply tell him to get lost. But the doorman merely nods and holds the door open for him, and Jon walks right inside.

The air con hits him like a small, welcome breeze straight off the northern snows.

The lobby is busy, full of small—and some larger—knots of people chattering excitedly to each other. From the various bits of equipment some of them—the less well-dressed ones—are toting, Jon takes an educated guess that most of these people are journalists and their attendant crews.

No one is wearing black, apart from Jon himself. In this climate, Jon can sort of see why. The sweat's been gathering in his armpits and around at the back of his neck, and across his back in a way that makes his t-shirt stick uncomfortably to his skin.

He goes over to the reception desk, flashes his press card at the oh-so-polite receptionist, and says, "Jon Snow from _The Night's Watch_ to see-"

"Yes, we were told to expect you, Mr Snow," the receptionist says at once. She produces a clipboard with a printed form on it. "If you'll just sign here, please, I'll take a copy of your press pass, and then I'll take you up myself."

"There's no need," Jon says once he signs his name and hands over his card. "To take me, I mean. If you could just point me in the right direction-?"

"I'll take you," she says firmly, and Jon realises that it's not an offer; she's _telling_ him how it will be. 

Once she's copied his card, she hands it back, and comes out from behind the desk to lead him over to the row of lifts. The assembled journalists pay no attention to either of them, but the security guards stationed outside the lift at the far end regard them suspiciously.

"That one goes up to the penthouse suite," the receptionist explains, nodding at the one with the guards on either side of it, but she presses the button to call one of the middle lifts instead.

"But don't we want-" John begins.

"No," the receptionist says, and Jon decides to stop asking pointless questions and resume his usual tactic of not saying anything unless he has a good reason. It's served him well in journalism as well as in life.

She takes him up to the seventh floor, leads the way to a room right near the end of a corridor that's just like every corridor in every hotel of any size in the world, and knocks on the door. It opens immediately to reveal a tall, skinny young guy in grey trousers and a white business shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He holds out his hand for Jon's press card—Jon's actually wearing it around his neck for once so he has to take it off—and inspects it carefully before saying:

"Okay, that's in order, you can come in. He's waiting for you."

"Good luck," the receptionist says, and just for a second her careful facade slips as she glances curiously past the two men into the room. But then she nods to them, smile all cool and professional again, and she's gone. 

Jon is left to follow the young guy past a closed door that must belong to the bathroom and into the main room.

It's a good-sized hotel room, bigger than any Jon's ever stayed in, but it's still just a room and not a suite, and sitting right in the middle of it at a small table, incongruous in such a mundane setting, is Jaime Lannister. He's even more good-looking in the flesh than he is on TV. Jon doesn't usually notice men, and he's not noticing as in _noticing_ now—but he's a human being, and he has eyes. And, of course, he's a trained journalist with a professional eye for detail. 

Jaime Lannister's good looks are startling. No wonder he's gotten away with so much that he shouldn't have over the years. Will he get away with his latest move, the most audacious he—or anyone else—has attempted in Westerosi politics since…? Well, Jon doesn't know since when. It's certainly the first time anyone has dared try anything like this against Tywin Lannister, that's for sure. 

Jaime Lannister gets to his feet as Jon and the young guy—Jon still doesn't know his name—come in, and holds out his hand for Jon to shake. It's an excellent prosthetic—no doubt the very best that a fuckton of money can buy—but it doesn't have the warmth of a living hand. Jon just stops himself from jerking back in surprise when the fake fingers flex against his hand.

"Jaime Lannister," Jaime Lannister says, unnecessarily, and flashes a sharp smile that's just as professional in its way as the one the receptionist used on Jon.

"Jon Snow," Jon says, just as unnecessarily, because who else would he be? But this is how these things are done. 

Jaime Lannister indicates the chair opposite him at the table, and Jon takes it.

"Thanks for making the time to talk to me," Jon says once they're both seated, because he's still somewhat surprised to be here.

"My people approached you," Jaime Lannister reminds him.

"Yes, but that was, well, that was _before_ ," Jon points out. Before today. Before Jaime Lannister suddenly became, overnight, the biggest political story in a decade. And he still wants to talk to Jon in a one-on-one interview.

Why is that, exactly? It's a good question. Jon's the features editor for… well, not a _minor_ masthead, but still a provincial one. He's not a political journalist. He's here to conduct an interview for what was supposed to be a puff piece on a scion of a famous political family, something designed to portray an up and coming politician in a certain light, to sell him to the section of the public that laps up such profiles—particularly when the subject photographs as effortlessly well as Jaime Lannister.

Only Jaime Lannister isn't an up and coming politician any more. Not after this morning. No, Jaime Lannister has _arrived_. And Jon was told not to bring a photographer. No one but himself is allowed here today. If he wants a photograph to go with the article, he's going to have to take it himself, using his phone—but of course he won't. They're counting on that. It's words they want, not pictures this time.

"Why talk to me, and choose today, of all days?" Jon asks once he's set his pocket recorder on the table between them and switched it on. "You knew what was going to happen. You knew every political journalist in the country would be after an in-depth interview. So why me?"

"Because I suggested you." 

Jon turns around quickly in his seat, because Jaime Lannister isn't the one who answered his question. He's not entirely surprised to see Brienne Tarth standing in the bathroom doorway. She's wearing a white blouse with a navy blue trouser suit, which looks to be the same one that she was wearing when she was snapped having lunch with Jaime earlier today.

"Hello, Brienne," Jon says, as she comes over to join them, because of course he knows her. She works—or possibly _worked_ —for his aunt, as one of her policy development people, and she's Sansa's friend. And as of last night, she is, apparently, Jaime Lannister's other half.

Jon wonders what that's all about, but it's not a question that can be asked right out of the blue, so instead he turns swiftly back to Jaime and asks, right out of the blue, "What made you decide to defect from the Crown Party and start your own?"

He's watching Jaime, on purpose, and he sees the flare of surprise in Jaime's green eyes before he glances up at Brienne. Neither of them says anything to each other, but after a couple of seconds of silent conversation, Jaime turns back to Jon and asks, "Does that sort of bluntness generally work for you in interviews?" There's a smile at his lips, but not in his eyes.

Jon shrugs. "It's worth a try." He waits until Brienne takes the third seat at the table, between himself and Jaime, but a little closer to Jaime, before he asks, "But seriously: why? What was the tipping point?"

Jaime considers him through narrowed eyes for a moment, and finally says, "The Crown Party has been in power for a very long time." He pauses, as if searching for exactly the right words—interesting in itself, since Jaime Lannister is well-known as one of the best public speakers in the entire parliament, as much for his off-the-cuff quips as his carefully prepared speeches—when there's a knock at the door. "Peck, if you would?" Jaime says over his shoulder, but the young guy—who apparently really does answer to 'Peck'—is already on his way to the door. He opens it, and a young woman in black and white wheels in a laden tray.

Afternoon tea has arrived.

Jon turns off his recorder while the server lays a selection of cakes and pastries and tiny finger sandwiches on the table, before setting out a tea service: not just cups and saucers but small plates as well, all in a wafer thin, translucent porcelain that's nothing like the usual plain white crockery to be found in a thousand hotel function rooms throughout Westeros. Jon thinks this set may even be from Asshai. The gold around the edges and on the handles of the cups looks real, anyway.

Last of all, the server places a sugar bowl and milk jug, and three small, matching white teapots on the table. "Spearmint, high mountain, and strong black," she says, pointing to each teapot in turn, and Jon remembers that they'd asked him for his preference of tea weeks ago, when the arrangements for this interview were being made. His answer had been: "Bog standard"—which he guesses translates to "strong black" in swanky hotel-speak.

"Spearmint for my- for Ms Tarth," Jaime says, "high mountain for me, and strong black for Mr Snow."

That little slip is interesting, too. His… what? Or was it a slip at all? Jon can't help wondering if Jaime Lannister has ever said or done anything that didn't involve at least a little calculation. Even a cup of tea isn't an ordinary thing in Lannister-world.

The server departs with her tea trolley and Jon turns his recorder back on. He pours a cup of tea, takes a sip, and yes, it's strong and black, and slightly hotter than he expected, given that they're a long way from the hotel kitchens up here.

He glances over at Jaime, but he's aware of Brienne's eyes on him, blue and fierce, without even having to look directly at her face. Her body language tells him everything he needs to know: the way she holds herself, shoulders stiff, even while seated, the way she holds the handle of her teacup so tightly that her knuckles show white and bloodless. Jon can see exactly how much she doesn't want to be here, how much she wants this to be over and done with.

He tries another tack. This interview is meant to be for a personal profile, after all, even if it's been overtaken—not to say hijacked—by recent events. "Where did the two of you meet?" he asks. The question is ostensibly for Jaime, but Jon looks from one to the other, making it clear that it's addressed to them both.

Brienne flushes, her skin mottled beneath her freckles, pink and unlovely.

"We met at Winterfell when I was a guest of Catelyn Stark some months ago, and then Brienne and I travelled back to the capital together," Jaime says easily.

"It was a long trip," Brienne mutters, looking down at her plate. Jon gets the distinct impression that she'd rather look anywhere but at Jaime right now.

But of course it was during that trip that Jaime ended up minus one of his hands. Jon glances down at the replacement hand, lying against the white linen tablecloth, so close to looking real that it would fool anyone at first glance, or even second. Or it would, if it were anyone who didn't already know it's a fake.

Jon's pretty sure there isn't anyone in the whole of Westeros who doesn't know.

He looks up again quickly, first at Brienne, and then at Jaime. "And now you're…?" he presses, and waits. Let them choose the words.

"Now we're together," Jaime says. He reaches down and takes Brienne's hand beneath the table, and smiles at her, slow and warm and effortlessly devastating.

Brienne bites her lip, looks up, looks at Jaime and… well, she doesn't smile back, though she's clearly trying to. It's a travesty of a smile, the look on her face, awkward and self-conscious and _false_. She's trying so hard to play the part of the political partner, that's obvious, but she's a terrible actress.

Jon can't help but wonder why she's making the effort. 

"So, any hints about what the future holds?" he asks.

"Well, obviously we're somewhat busy right at the moment"—Jaime allows the faintest, faintly self-deprecating smile to touch his lips—"so we'll just have to see where we are when things have calmed down a bit."

"And when is that likely to be?" Jon asks.

"That rather depends on the actions of a few people, not just myself," Jaime says carefully—not that every single word he's uttered since Jon entered the room _hasn't_ been carefully considered.

"Such as your father?" Jon suggests.

"Such as _the Prime Minister_ , yes," Jaime corrects.

"How does he feel about your actions today?"

"He made his feelings on the matter quite clear at the news conference he held earlier today. You didn't catch it?"

"You haven't spoken with him privately?"

"I could scarcely resign from the party without informing him," Jaime points out. "I spoke with him first thing this morning."

"But not since?"

"No, not since."

"Why?" Jon asks bluntly. They share a long look. Jon wonders if Jaime will pretend to believe that the question is about why he and his father haven't spoken again, but Jaime instead says nothing at all. He reaches for his teapot and pours out a cup of tea, the liquid an unexpected shade of deep gold.

Typical. Trust Jaime Lannister's tea of choice to be _golden_.

"Why did you choose to take the actions that you did today?" Jon clarifies, and already wishes that he'd held his tongue the moment the words are out of his mouth. He should have waited to see what Jaime Lannister would have said in response to that ambiguous, one-word question, but it's too late now.

Jaime is in the act of lifting his cup to his lips. He doesn't betray any reaction to the question, nor does he spill a single drop. He sips his tea, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, before setting his cup back in its saucer. "The country needs something different," he says.

Jon blinks. He was expecting another evasive answer, but apparently Jaime Lannister is ready to talk. "And you think you're the right person to provide that?" he asks.

"I'm the only one in a position to do it right now," Jaime says. "The Crown Party has become complacent about its grip on power. Too many of its members feel that they can say anything, do anything, and there will be no consequences. They've forgotten that they've been elected to represent the people, that they're supposed to always act in the country's interests first and not their own."

Jon nods. "Not all of them, though."

"No, of course not all of them." Jaime's lip curls back very slightly. Jon thinks it might be in amusement, but it's a particularly Lannister type manifestation of the emotion—one that isn't funny at all. "There were a number of other representatives who felt as I did. Maybe none of us is quite as _honest_ "—he says it as if it's a failing—"as your late uncle—you have quite a look of him, by the way, as you're no doubt aware—but we're all keenly aware that we've been elected to serve the people, and that's what we intend to do. That's why they've left the Crown Party today to join my new party, and helped me make it a reality."

"Yes, that was an interesting move," Jon admits, "but why not simply join the Opposition? I'm sure the Smallfolk Party would love to have you."

Jaime Lannister smirks, and this time the amusement reaches his eyes. When he opens his mouth he lets out a huff of laughter. "You have a more powerful imagination than I gave you credit for, Snow, if you can truly see me as a member of the Smallfolk Party."

Jon gives a small nod and a very slight grin, acknowledging the truth of this. "So your new party's not for the Crown or for the Smallfolk. Who's its constituency?"

"I wouldn't say that we're not _for_ the Crown or the Smallfolk. We're certainly not against either of them, anyway."

To Jon's surprise, Brienne, who has been conspicuously silent and sipping her tea while Jaime has answered Jon's questions, chooses now to re-join the conversation. "The whole idea behind the Westerosi Democrats is that it's a party that belongs to the centre," she says, leaning forward slightly in her chair. For the first time since she sat down, she looks at least a little as if she wants to be here. "It's the bridge between the two existing sides," she continues, "or it could be, if enough people give Jaime their support."

"The party," Jaime says, "if enough people give _the party_ their support."

"You," Brienne says, looking steadily at him. She doesn't quite smile at him, but she doesn't quite not, either. Her lips are set in a firm line, the expression in her eyes bright and sure.

And yes, Jon thinks, this is what Brienne cares about: what Jaime Lannister can do for the country that no one else can. That's why she's putting herself through this. Brienne clearly holds a genuine, if unlikely, regard for Jaime Lannister the politician, if not the man, but, even more so, this, the political agenda, the passion with which she cares about the future of the nation and its people: this is _real_. 

Jon takes a dainty, crustless sandwich from the tray in the centre of the table and bites into it. He grimaces slightly. It's cucumber and lemon butter—but then, what else would one eat with _golden_ tea? He sets the remaining half sandwich down on his plate and says, "But you already have all the support you need, don't you? For the moment, anyway. Your new party holds the balance of power in the House."

"We do," Jaime says, and yes, he's choosing his words very, _very_ carefully now. 

"So no legislation gets through the parliament without your agreement."

"That's how it works when you hold the balance of power, yes," Jaime agrees.

"And do you have your own legislative agenda to put to the government, as well as negotiating whether to support theirs?"

"It would have been fairly pointless to go to the trouble of setting up a new political party if I didn't, don't you think?"

"So you do," Jon says.

"Yes, we do," Brienne says. Her lips quiver a second and then she finally smiles properly.

 _We_. Jon wonders if she realises how much she's given away with that one word. He sees his Aunt Catelyn's hand in this, and he's pretty sure he has his answer about whether or not Brienne still works for her. He sips his tea and asks his next question, this one about exactly what sorts of legislation the Westerosi Democrats might be interested in getting through the parliament and passed into law.

And so the interview continues, with both of his subjects becoming if not more relaxed then at least more animated and enthusiastic as the conversation goes on.

It's only as at last their allotted time comes to an end and they all get to their feet that Jon notices something, but he doesn't have the opportunity to stop and wonder about it. As soon as he thanks them for their time, and they tell him that it was their pleasure—a polite fiction if not an outright lie that they'll all agree is true—he's being hustled out of the room by the young aide, Peck.

It's not until Jon is in the lift and on his way back down to the lobby that he has time to really dwell on what he thought he saw right before he left the room. Jaime's hand—the prosthetic one—had not been on the table top throughout most of the interview. Jon had noticed that but pretended not to. Even someone who looks like Jaime Lannister—or maybe especially someone who looks like Jaime Lannister—might be self-conscious of something like that. But as they'd got up from the table, Jon had realised that Jaime had not been holding his hand in his lap. In fact, Jon isn't sure that he'd moved it again after taking Brienne's hand, early on in the interview.

But he couldn't really have been holding Brienne's hand under the table all that time, could he? Brienne wouldn't have been calmly sipping her tea if that were the case.

Would she?

Jon sighs. He's going to need to do a follow-up interview for a proper profile, and next time he'll bring a photographer with him, no matter what they say. But before anything else at all, he thinks it's probably time for him to go and see his cousin Sansa, and have a talk.

Maybe a long talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: In this version of modern Westeros, they use [the Westminster system](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westminster_system#Characteristics), so there's a monarch rather than a president, and the head of the government is the prime minister. The prime minister is the leader of the party that can "command the confidence of the chamber" - which means s/he leads the party that holds a majority in the lower house of the parliament, or else can command a majority with the support of any minor party or parties that hold the balance of power.
> 
> Jaime's Westerosi Democrats are based on the Australian Democrats, which is a party that was formed in 1977 and held the balance of power in the Australian Senate for many years. The ADs are a centrist party, founded amidst widespread discontent with the two major parties. Their first leader was a former conservative government minister...
> 
> Next up: dinner.


	4. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is served.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short instalment this time. The chapter after this one will be longer...

The door to the private apartment adjoining his office closes behind him with a soft click, and he's alone. He removes his jacket, but that's the only concession to comfort that he allows himself, and it's mainly for practical reasons, anyway: it's easier to move his arms, to stretch out across a desk of papers requiring his attention, when they're not constrained by even such an expertly tailored suit jacket.

He's not a fan of any sort of constraint. Never has been. Not when applied to himself, in any event. Constraints are for other people.

He sits down at the table, and switches on the television that takes up a good portion of the wall opposite. It's already set to the WBC News channel.

[Chief Political Reporter Roger Hogg, outside Parliament House]: "... amazing scenes in the parliament today as Defence Minister— _former_ Defence Minister, I should say—Jaime Lannister staged what can only be called a rebellion against the government led by his own father, the Prime Minister, Tywin Lannister. It appears that the Prime Minister was given only minutes' notice of his son's intention to quit the Crown Party before today's sitting began, and as you can see in the footage here, Ermesande, Jaime Lannister wasted no time in leading his fellow-defectors to sit on the cross benches, immediately depriving the government of its majority."

[ _8:00PM Politics_ host Ermesande Hayford, in the studio]: "So what happens now for the government, Roger?"

[Roger Hogg]: "The short answer to that is: not a lot of anything, at least when it comes to getting legislation passed—unless they can persuade Jaime Lannister and his new Westerosi Democrats Party to support it, in any case."

[Ermesande Hayford]: "And how likely do you think that is?"

[Roger Hogg]: "Jaime Lannister talked a lot about consensus and collaboration in his press conference this morning, but also about holding the government to account. Or, as outspoken backbencher and Jaime Lannister loyalist Bronn Stokeworth put it when I spoke to him earlier:

[Vision of Bronn Stokeworth]: "We aim to keep the c-BLEEP-ts honest."

[Voice of Roger Hogg]: "And which, er, party are you referring to when you say that, Mr Stokeworth?"

[Bronn Stokeworth]: "Both sets of c-BLEEP-ts."

[Ermesande Hayford]: _laughs_ "Bronn Stokeworth there, as colourful as ever, but it also sounds like he means it. Is that your reading of the situation, Roger?"

[Roger Hogg]: "Oh, without a doubt, Ermesande. But it's not the only item on the Westerosi Democrats' agenda. Jaime Lannister gave a rundown of what the new party stands for and what it hopes to achieve. It seems ambitious, given that the Prime Minister has rarely been interested in consensus or collaboration—I won't touch on concepts like honesty, though. I think the government's record speaks for itself there."

There's a knock at the door, and he turns the sound off. "Enter," he says.

His new personal assistant pokes her head around the door. "Dinner has arrived, ser."

He nods, and waits, staring at her, unblinking, until she lets out a little squeak and steps back quickly, to let the waiter through. The waiter is efficient, as she damn well should be, and lays out the meal before opening the bottle of wine—Arbor red, naturally—and pouring a little into a glass for him to taste.

He does so, nods his acquiescence, and sets the glass down so that it can be filled the rest of the way. He waits until the door has closed behind the waiter again before unfolding his napkin and surveying the contents of the table.

Soused mullet and black garlic from the Riverlands; battered oysters and champagne aioli from the Crownlands; grilled asparagus and crispy pig's ear from the Vale; salted cod and seaweed salad from the Iron Islands; stargazy pie from the Westerlands, gape-mouthed fish faces poking up through the crust; from the Stormlands, venison pie, the filling as thick and dark as the Baratheons themselves; some deceptively innocent-looking spicy goat thing from Dorne, accompanied by a bowl of rice; and last of all a sweet pie made from the Reach's golden apples, served with clotted cream: all of Westeros, spread out before him in produce, all his to taste and consume—or spit out again at his whim. All save the North, but who would wish anything the North might produce on anyone?

Well, he might, and has, but he doesn't choose to take it for himself. Not the food, anyway.

He takes a little of everything, and then ignores most of it as he sips his wine and flips through the various news articles on his e-pad, the links sent with the latest missive from his chief of staff. The one from _The Night's Watch_ catches his eye, mostly because of the sheer unlikelihood of that outlet ever publishing anything of interest to him. As he reads the article by one Jon Snow—some close relative of the Starks, if he remembers correctly, albeit born on the wrong side of the blanket—he becomes steadily less surprised. That huge, hulking woman of Jaime's—his _girlfriend_ , supposedly—is one of Cat Stark's people, and he sees Cat Stark's unsubtle fingerprints all over this interview. It leaves out far more than it says, though whether that's by design or simply because the interviewer is hopelessly inept he cannot say for certain. Possibly both.

He stops to eat, continuing to browse the news sporadically as he works his way through the kingdoms, counterclockwise, starting from Dorne. He refills his glass only once, when he reaches the Riverlands, and by the time he makes it to the Reach he's ready for a small glass of sweet dessert wine, as golden as the crisp, flaky pastry of the pie, and the apples inside.

He takes up his pad again, reading closer now. Olyvar Waters in _The Oldtown Post_ is far more perspicacious than Jon Snow will ever be, though one would expect no less from that quarter. But even so, the article is still filled with more questions than answers. Of course it is. No one has any real answers yet: not the journalists, not Cat Stark, not that Tarth woman. Not even Jaime, whatever he might think.

He doesn't smile at the thought, because he never smiles. Levity is for invertebrates who mistake the business of life for something to be enjoyed. Enjoyed! It's not to enjoy but to endure that they're put here in this world. To endure and to triumph, and if that means grinding all the rest underfoot, then so be it. At the end of the day, what else is there?

There's family, of course, but only because endurance can never be simply a personal thing. His family is as much a part of his legacy as anything else he's achieved in his lifetime. He's going to have to break the family, naturally, given the events of today. Break it to his will and then mend it, fashion it into something more in keeping with his own image until it's a family to be proud of again.

Starting with Jaime.

He sets down his pad, and switches the sound back on on the television. The news channel is replaying an excerpt from their earlier commentary as part of its endless cycle and recycle.

[ _8:00PM Politics_ host Ermesande Hayford, in the studio]: "So what happens now for the government, Roger?"

It's a good question, and yet no one has supplied the obvious answer. He's going to have to do it himself, just like everything else, when the time is right—which will be sooner than anyone else is counting on, by the looks of things.

Tywin Lannister sits back in his chair, and lets an expression of cold satisfaction settle on his features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Australian Democrats' first leader promised to "keep the bastards honest". I have shamelessly appropriated this, and Bronn put his own unique spin on it.
> 
> Up next: Midnight Snack!


	5. Midnight Snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lies beneath.

It's late when they leave Jaime's Parliament House office, after an evening of meetings and strategising. They walk the almost empty corridors in silence. Jaime's mind is a whirl. He can't quite believe that this day is not just here at last, but almost over. 

"We did it. We actually did it, and got away with it," Brienne murmurs as they reach the top of the grand staircase. She sounds disbelieving.

"We got away with it _so far_ ," Jaime corrects as they descend the stairs into the Great Hall. Today may be almost over, but it's only the first day of many. "My father will be readying his counterstrike, don't forget." It will be swift and brutal, no doubt. Tywin won't forgive what he sees as Jaime's betrayal. "I have to be ready for it, for whatever he can—and will—throw at me."

Brienne stops so suddenly that he's several steps ahead of her before he realises. When he turns to look back at her, he has to tilt his head to meet her gaze. She's even farther above him than usual.

"We," she reminds him quietly. " _We_ have to be ready. Not just you." She punctuates her words with a firm nod.

His lips curve into a smile before he can prevent it. "We," he agrees. " _Us._ "

He's not alone in this. He's had to remind himself of that over the past month, when they've been forced to keep apart and pretend that they were nothing to each other, less than nothing. Even last night, at the ball, and today when they revealed themselves, politically and personally, he still couldn't let this—the two of them, together—be quite real. Not when there were eyes—and cameras—watching. But now...

Jaime takes a step up, and then two more until he's standing beside Brienne. His hand—his real hand—finds hers and draws it, and the rest of her, close against him, even though no one who matters is here to see. She doesn't lean into his embrace, but she doesn't pull away, either. He glances at her and she glances back, answering his unspoken question with a squeeze of her hand, and it's enough to have her there, beside him, where she should be.

It's enough for now, anyway.

They reach the bottom of the stairs in silence and walk across the Great Hall before taking the lift down to the Members' car park, deep beneath the main part of the building. It's a long way down and at last they're truly alone. He could do more than simply hold Brienne's hand, squeeze it tight, try to communicate… He doesn't even know what he wants to tell her. Maybe she has a better idea. Maybe he could push her back against the mirrored wall of the lift, and let himself press up against her until he's sure that she's not just a memory, not just a dream, but all warm, living woman, right here with him. Brienne.

He could do all of that, and more. Who knows? She might even let him.

But he doesn't try. Only their eyes are on each other as the lift descends. He wonders what she's thinking. She only ever says anything when she has something to say, and sometimes not even then.

His driver is waiting for them, right outside the lift when the doors slide open. Jaime lets go of Brienne's hand as she precedes him into the car. A moment later the door has closed behind him and he settles in, stretching out his own long legs beside hers in the back of the limousine.

"Home," he says. It feels like a long time since either of them has spoken.

The driver nods and says, "Yes, sir," but before he has a chance to reach for the ignition button Brienne breaks in:

"I need to stop off at my place."

Jaime glances at her in surprise.

"Clothes," she says in a low voice. The self-conscious expression on her face reminds him of the outsized, awkward young woman he met all those months ago at Winterfell.

Jaime grins. "Imagine if you were caught leaving my apartment tomorrow morning wearing the same outfit as today. Oh, the _scandal_." He shakes his head slowly in mock-sorrow.

Her eyes flash with indignation, but a hint of amusement too—he's become an expert at reading their every changing mood—and she bites her lip, restraining herself—he's sure—from saying what she'd really like to say.

"I just want some fresh clothes so I can be _comfortable_ ," she says after a moment, clearly having to take her time before she trusts herself to speak.

"Of course," Jaime agrees, his tone as innocent as he can make it. It's just as innocent—so very matter-of-fact—as he gives her address to the driver and tells him to take them there first.

The engine growls into life, and they set off.

She's watching him, eyes gleaming bright and keen and oh-so-blue, even in the pale, watery light that washes across her face as they pass under one of the car park lights, and he has to reach for her hand, has to touch her because-

Her hand clutches his, hard, her short, blunt nails digging into his palm, communicating her exasperation and everything else— _everything_ —that she can't bring herself to say right now.

He draws her hand up to his lips and brushes a kiss against the back of it, soft and almost, almost chaste, eyes not leaving hers the whole time. He expects to see more indignation there, but there's not. 

Her hand trembles against his lips—and then he's the one who's trembling. 

They're both trembling.

He draws in a sharp breath and lets go of her hand, but it lingers there against his lips, as if she can't quite bear to break the physical contact.

He grabs her hand again, rougher than he intends, and turns it over, presses a long, lingering kiss into her palm, deep and fervent, his breath hot against her skin as he breathes her in and-

She pulls her hand back.

He watches her, soft lips parted, chest heaving beneath her slightly creased white linen blouse, and her eyes… Oh, her _eyes_.

He turns his head sharply and looks out of the window as the car ascends the steep exit ramp, up and out into the night.

"Jaime," she says.

It feels like forever since she last said his name, and even longer since she said it like _that_. His driver is sitting up front, though. Jaime doesn't care what the man hears, or what he thinks about it. He knows damn well that he won't say anything, regardless. All of the parliamentary drivers take pride in their professionalism, and are close-mouthed to a man, or, in some cases, woman.

No, Jaime doesn't care—but he knows that Brienne does. She's still so… not just self-conscious but conscious, of everyone and everything around them.

He turns back to look at her. "Brienne," he says, investing the two syllables of her name with a world of promise. She colours. It's not noticeable in the half-light, but he knows that she does.

He grins, but says nothing more.

She doesn't say anything, either.

Her hand is resting on the seat between them, and after a second he covers it with his own. He doesn't try to lift her hand to his lips again, but he leaves his there, fingers curling around the edge of her hand as his thumb slowly strokes the back of it, again and again and again. 

Brienne doesn't take her hand away this time.

By the time they draw up outside Brienne's building, she's not the only one who's _conscious_. Fortunately for both of them, she doesn't live far down the hill. 

"I'll just be a moment," she says, taking her hand back to release her seatbelt and open the door.

"I'll come up with you," he says, and she glances back at him, clearly surprised. He shrugs. "I haven't seen where you've been living this past month, and I'm curious."

She shrugs in turn. "If you like."

He follows her out of the car. The night air is cool against his cheeks as she hunts through her bag for her keys. He hears the soft clink as her fingers close around them, more clinking as she turns the front door key in the lock, and then he blinks, briefly blinded as she reaches inside and finds the light switch. 

She casts a long shadow as she pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps through.

Again, Jaime follows her.

There's no lift. He expresses some surprise about this to Brienne.

"It's just three levels. The building code only requires a lift in buildings of four levels or more." She lets out a small sigh. "There are lots of three level apartment buildings in this part of town."

"Ah," Jaime says. He's reasonably familiar with this part of King's Landing, just as he is with everywhere that falls within a couple of miles' radius of the House and the Red Keep, but he's fairly sure that he's never been inside a low-rise apartment block of this sort in his life.

Brienne lives on the top floor. He's not even sure why he's surprised about that as he follows her up a narrow stairwell. He watches her back in front of him, watches her legs, bending and stretching with each step she takes, watches her hips sway gently as she climbs the stairs, watches all the rest of her, remembers every last inch that's currently hidden beneath her clothes, but just as in the lift back at the House, he doesn't push her up against the wall. He doesn't even try to touch.

That doesn't mean that he doesn't think about it, though.

Brienne pushes open another door at the top of the stairs, and Jaime finds himself in a narrow, nondescript corridor. She makes her way swiftly to a door halfway along and opens _that_ —and they step into Brienne's apartment.

It's dark and silent inside before Brienne turns on the light. Clearly no one else is home.

"Sansa's out tonight," Brienne confirms—and Jaime can wait no longer. It hasn't just been today or tonight or that never-ending car ride, it's been an entire month since they've been properly alone together and he's _done_.

He-

Brienne pushes him back against the closed door and kisses him hard. She draws back almost immediately, looking faintly appalled. "Sorry, I shouldn't have done that, I just-"

He leans up and kisses her, just as hard, and doesn't draw back. The kiss is hot and wet and filled with more desperation than he intends. His hands clutch at her shoulders before his left slips down and under the lapel of her jacket, cupping the shape of her through the thin blouse, fingers brushing across the gentle swell of her breast, its suddenly hard tip jutting up beneath the constraining fabric of her bra. 

She lets out a tiny sound, a whimper, a groan, _something_ —but a familiar something—and pushes his hand away, which isn't familiar at all. 

"What?" he murmurs.

"Not there, not right now," she says, but softens the sting of rejection by pressing even closer, hands bracing against the wall on either side of his head.

He presses right back, his hands slipping up and into her short hair—she doesn't object to _that_ —and they fall into each other, mouth to mouth and shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Her nipple isn't the only thing that's jutting up hard now, and he rocks his hips up against her. 

They both groan this time.

How he's missed this, the way they are together, missed the feel of her against him, missed all of her—missed her most of all when he's been with her but not _with_ her, last night and every time they've met up today.

"Gods, I've missed you," she breathes against his lips.

He's not the only one who's desperate. 

Up against the door isn't the place to do this. 

He lets go of her, raises his hands to push her back from him just a very little, opens his eyes and glances around the room. There's a small kitchen at one end, and a television and two-seater couch at the other. The couch isn't long enough for either of them. There's not even a decent open space on the floor, uncluttered by furniture.

"Bedroom?" he enquires.

She gazes into his eyes a second, her own a clouded, hazy uncomprehending blue, before the question penetrates. She smiles suddenly, and the sight of it is almost like a punch to the guts. It gets him every time, her smile, if only because when he first knew her he didn't think she knew how to. Even now, her smile is rare, and almost always intended for him.

He treasures every single smile he receives from her, and hoards the memory of them, more precious than gold.

"Come with me," she says, taking his hand and leading him to the door on the far side of the room. It opens to reveal a small hallway with three more doors opening off it. Her bedroom is behind the door at the far end.

_The room is small_ is his first and last thought before they fall across the bed together. They share another kiss, a long, lingering one, which should go some way towards assuaging the yearning ache inside him—but it doesn't. It just makes him want— _need_ —to be closer, even more than before.

"Too many clothes," Brienne murmurs when at last they pause for breath, and Jaime can only agree.

He stops to kiss her again, and one kiss turns into two and then three before Brienne finally pulls back and says, " _Clothes_." She sounds as breathless as he feels, her chest heaving, lips swollen and pink and- 

Jaime forces himself to roll away and sit up, shrugging out of his jacket and kicking off his shoes while beside him Brienne does the same. Then he tumbles her back down onto the bed to help her with the rest. He manages not to send any buttons flying as he divests her of her blouse—but only because she's said some stern words about that sort of thing in the past—and then she's lying back against the pillows, a slightly incongruous sight, in formal suit trousers and nothing but a bra. The bra looks… tight.

Jaime frowns, and reaches for the fastening—it's one of those front-loading style bras—but she swats his hand away. Again. Just like she did before and-

"What's wrong?" he asks, his frown deepening. That's the second time in just a few minutes that she's stopped him touching her like that. She's never objected before. Not ever.

She gives a slight shake of her head. "Nothing's wrong. They're just a bit sensitive." She doesn't meet his eyes, but that could be because she's looking him up and down, a sweeping glance from beneath her pale lashes that takes in all of him. 

And no, there can't be anything really wrong when she looks at him like that.

He snatches up her hand and presses a kiss to the underside of her wrist, smiling against her skin at her sudden soft shiver.

"You're still wearing too many clothes," she observes, voice only a little unsteady, and leans forward, clearly intent on rectifying the situation.

His grin widens, and he lets it turn wicked. "It is rather hot in here," he observes in turn.

She doesn't bother to reply, clearly preferring action to words right now.

He doesn't try to stop her. In fact, he assists her in her worthy endeavours.

A short time later, he's the one falling back against the pillows, and now he's wearing a lot less than he was before. So is she—though she's _still_ wearing that damned bra. He reaches for her, because he needs to touch her, needs to feel her, her bare skin against his, as close as it's possible to be.

She moves down the bed a little way, just out of his reach, but before he can ask why—teasing games are not usually her style—he no longer needs to: she gets up on her knees, _literally_ gets a leg over him, and then she's straddling his thighs, watching him through eyes like two deep, dark pools that are nevertheless just as astonishing and arresting a blue as always.

He swallows, hard. He knows better than to ask any foolish questions like 'Are you ready?' or even more foolish ones like 'Are you sure?' and it's not as if she's going to ask such questions of him. The answers are embarrassingly obvious.

His cock's already hard—how could it not be?—but when she reaches down between them and takes him in a loose clasp, slipping along the length of him in a long, firm stroke, it's his turn to push her hand away. If she does anything other than simply lay her hand on him now he'll have more to be embarrassed about than the answers to unasked questions.

She smiles, but not a wicked smile, not a teasing smile, not a smile that's trying to hide anything. She'd never be a successful politician—which is just as well. There are already more than enough politicians in the family. Her smile is one of simple satisfaction and… He's not sure what to call the rest of what he sees in her expression, except that it's a hundred per cent authentic Brienne.

She reaches for her bra, closing her eyes and letting out a little sigh of relief as the clasp comes free, and she shrugs it off, letting it drop into the shadows on the floor.

Jaime sighs too, though not in relief. He'd swear her breasts look fuller than his memory insists they should be, the nipples larger and darker, but he would need— _does_ need—to touch them to really say for sure. He remembers exactly how well they fit against his palms, two perfect little handfuls-

Brienne raises herself up on her knees and immediately has his full attention: his eyes on her mouth as she bites her lip in concentration, his breath catching in his throat as she takes him in hand again, his own hands reaching out to grasp her hips, to hold her steady as she lowers herself-

They both gasp at the first touch as she brushes the head of his cock, and her eyes meet his as her cunt closes around him and gods she's wet, so wet, after just a few kisses—or after a month of being apart, depending on which way you look at it. A month it's been, an entire _month_ of existing in the public world and, until last night, acting as if this private one didn't exist; of course it's not about a few kisses, for either of them. He arches his hips, thrusting up and going the rest of the way to meet her, to find her, to join with her, until he's buried deep, but there isn't really any more 'he', or 'she', there's just:

"Us," he says, so softly that it could be mistaken for just a hissing breath, as he thrusts up again.

_Us._ Is he just imagining that Brienne mouths the word in silent agreement? Her lips are parted—but maybe just on a sigh. She leans forward then, though, hands braced against the headboard as she kisses him, shifts her hips and begins to move above him, and Jaime stops caring about words as he kisses her back and loses himself in the reality of _them_.

He doesn't last, _they_ don't last. It's swift and urgent and just a little bit clumsy, their noses bumping together in between kisses. Jaime wouldn't change any part of it.

Afterwards, he rolls her onto her back—or she slips off him and onto her side and lets him take her the rest of the way, anyway. She raises her eyebrows in question, but he just grins impishly down at her before he presses a kiss below her ear, then a few more at her jaw before leaving a trail of kisses along her neck and-

"Jaime!" she says.

He lifts his head briefly. "Shh! You've had your evil way with me. Now it's my turn." He drops a kiss to her shoulder and brushes another across her clavicle before moving further south.

She lets out a small groan. It sounds grudging, and his lips curl into a smirk against her skin. 

"I did _not_ have my evil- Ah!"

He looks up, quickly, after pressing a kiss to the expanse of skin between breast and navel. "Is this a no go zone too?" he asks lightly, but he's ready to be concerned. He'd bypassed her breasts since she'd already made her wishes about being touched there clear, but-

"Stubble," she says through gritted teeth, though her expression isn't anything like as stern as what she's obviously trying for.

_Oh._

"Sorry," he says, and flashes her a grin that isn't sorry at all before bending his head to resume his self-appointed task. He lavishes kisses on her stubble-abused flesh, before pressing a deeper kiss to her navel.

Brienne inhales sharply, and squirms beneath his touch, and _yes_ : this is what he's been trying for. He doesn't linger. Teasing is not what either of them wants or needs tonight—well, not _prolonged_ teasing.

"Come here," he says, urging her over to the edge of the bed so that she's half-sitting with her legs, spread, over the side.

Brienne is never the most talkative person—that hardly matters when Jaime has more than enough words for two—but that doesn't mean she's shy and retiring. She'll object long and loud if she doesn't agree with something, but now she is conspicuous in her silence. 

This particular form of silent acquiescence is not unknown to Jaime.

He kneels before her on the floor, swallows, and licks his suddenly dry lips, then leans in between her legs and simply breathes her in for a moment before he presses a soft kiss to her nether lips. He tastes himself there, as well as her. 

_Us. From now on it will always be us._ He's sure of that. _Nearly_ sure.

He slips his left hand up over her thigh and along the side of her belly, a butterfly light touch that isn't accidental. He's spent many rewarding hours seeking out and finding all of Brienne's most sensitive spots, and even more hours testing them thoroughly. So now he hesitates at her hip, letting his hand hover there a moment, before bringing it back along the same path.

Brienne shivers and groans and grabs his hand, stopping it in its tracks.

"Don't tease," she says.

"Would I ever tease you?" he asks, assuming a wounded look, because he can't _not_ , even though she isn't able to see his face right now.

" _Yes_ ," she says, and then in quite another sort of voice, "Not tonight. _Please_."

And how can Jaime deny a request like that? Particularly when she leans forward a little and sinks her fingers into his hair, urging him closer.

He doesn't need any more encouragement, or any encouragement at all. 

She doesn't last this time, either. 

She comes quickly. Gratifyingly quickly. So quickly, in fact, that her orgasm seems to take not just him but herself by surprise. One minute she's panting and groaning and arching up off the edge of the bed, and the next she's crying out as her powerful thighs clench against the sides of his head and her pulse flutters against his tongue.

She relaxes all at once, legs falling loosely apart as she flops back against the mattress, though her breath is still coming in deep gasps. Jaime inhales deeply, enjoying the novel sensation of being able to breathe properly again, and goes to join her on the bed. He lies back against the pillows, looking down at her and fingers playing idly with a few strands of her pale blonde hair.

"I've missed you," he says after a while. 

"I've missed you, too," Brienne says, a tiny smile touching her lips.

"I still miss you," Jaime points out, and Brienne lets out a spluttering laugh.

"Are you trying to be subtle?" she asks.

"Would it do me any good if I was?" Jaime retorts.

Brienne doesn't bother answering this, but she sits up and moves back up the bed until she's propped up against the pillows beside him.

"I really did miss you," she says. 

"And I really did miss you—but you knew that." He leans over to touch the lightest of butterfly kisses to her lips, so light that it's more tease than kiss—but she'd asked him not to tease her. She'd even said _please_. So he doesn't tease her—yet. Instead, he says, "I love you—but you knew that, too."

She goes completely still, and looks down at her hands, for so long that Jaime thinks she isn't going to say anything. He opens his mouth to speak, though he has no idea what he's going to say, when she lets out her breath in a sudden whoosh, and says, "I didn't know, actually. Not for sure." She reaches up and cups one side of his face in her hand. "I love you as well. Did you know?" Her expression hides nothing, and her voice is low and unguarded, and just as vulnerable.

He'll never be as brave as she is.

"I do now," he says. They're so close that he can feel the tiny gust of her breath, warm against his lips. 

They've kissed many times before, but the kiss that follows now feels different, new. It feels like it's the first one.

It's been a day of firsts, a day of beginnings—and endings, too—including the first time Jaime's visited Brienne here-

He lets out a huff of laughter.

"What's so funny?" Brienne asks.

"My driver's still waiting for us downstairs."

Her eyes widen. "It went right out of my head," she says, as if admitting to some sort of dire failing.

"I'm glad to know that I had your full attention," he says.

And yes, it's amusing, but it doesn't make the situation any less inconvenient, and it will only become more inconvenient in the days and weeks to come if they continue together but not quite _together_ , like this.

"You should move in with me," he says, not impulsively at all but doing his best to make it sound as if it's an idea that's only just occurred to him.

Brienne doesn't reply at once, which doesn't surprise him. She sighs and tilts her head back against the pillows, looking up but, Jaime suspects, not really seeing.

"I'm pregnant," she says to the ceiling. It's Jaime's turn to go completely still. He blinks, once, and turns to look at her. She's not smiling. After a moment of silence, she glances at him warily.

"How did it h-" He stops himself before he can finish that particular question. It's obvious how it happened. It's just: "You were on the p-"

"That weekend we were at Harrenhal. Remember I had an upset stomach?"

Jaime nods. He remembers how unwell she'd been the first day, and how he'd been ready to take her home early. But then she'd recovered as quickly as she'd fallen ill, and seemed fine the next day, so they'd stayed on and they'd... 

"How do you feel about it?" he asks. She doesn't seem thrilled.

"Well, the timing's terrible," she says.

Jaime keeps very still, steeling himself, waiting for what comes next, reminding himself, over and over, that she's not Cersei, she's nothing like Cersei, she'd never-

"And obviously it changes all sorts of things—for me, anyway," she continues.

Jaime lets himself breathe. That doesn't sound like… "So you want to keep it?" he makes himself ask.

"Don't you?" she asks. The look in her beautiful blue eyes is hurt, resigned… bruised. If anyone else had caused her to look like that, Jaime would have had no hesitation in making them wish they were never born.

"It's our child. Of course I want it." He wonders if it's possible to punch yourself in the face in any effective sort of way.

She closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh, and when she opens them again it's as if the terrible, sad look has never been. She smiles, very slightly. "I want it too."

They stare at each other.

"We're having a baby," Jaime says. The words feel strange in his mouth, though the opposite of unwelcome. He knows he's grinning: foolishly, stupidly, _happily_.

"We are," Brienne says, and grins right back at him.

The kiss they share this time feels even more like a beginning than the last one.

"You really had better move in with me," he says when at last they pause for breath, and then bites down on a rueful smile. "My driver is _still_ waiting outside," he reminds Brienne in reply to her questioning look. He leans over the side of the bed and fishes his phone out of the pile of discarded clothing. "I'll text him and tell him to go home now, and come back to pick us up right after breakfast tomorrow—if that suits you?"

"Yes, I don't feel much like driving anywhere else tonight," she says. 

She looks tired, her eyelids suddenly heavy, and Jaime's heart clenches in his chest at the sight. He's already asked a lot of her, and he's going to have to ask a lot more in the days and weeks to come. Tonight is a pause for breath in the eye of their personal storm before they have to step out into the tempest of their public life again. She hates it. He knows that. Not just the attention itself but the need to perform for the audience that is always watching. It doesn't come naturally to her. She doesn't have the knack of putting on an invisible mask and inhabiting the part of her public self. It _looks_ like an act when she does it: truth disguising itself as something false. The irony of that, of Brienne, the best and truest person he's ever known, maybe the only person who's ever truly loved him, appearing as if she's faking it, is not lost on him.

And yet, for all that, she does it, she tries, and keeps trying. For him. She's willing to put herself through something she hates, for him. And it's also partly for the cause. He knows that, knows how ardently she cares about bettering the lives of other people. It had humbled him, when he'd first realised how much she sincerely believed in the ability of politicians to act for the public good if they could just be bothered. Not him, of course. Very definitely not him. Not when they'd first met. She'd despised the man he'd been then, and didn't attempt to hide her scorn of the political games that had consumed his life—and she'd been right.

She's always right, ultimately, about the important things. Sometimes he still can't quite believe that he numbers among them in her eyes.

He glances up from his phone to find Brienne watching him.

"What's on your mind?" he asks, setting the phone down. There's a lot they need to talk about, though nearly all of it can wait until morning.

Brienne smiles wearily. "What _isn't_ on my mind?" she asks in reply, but she huffs a little laugh. "Actually, just then I was thinking that I could do with a snack. It seems like a long time since dinner."

"It is a while since dinner." He frowns in sudden concern. "Did you eat enough?" She hasn't eaten much today and... Oh gods! Now that he thinks back and considers what she _has_ eaten—and drunk—he can't believe he didn't notice. He's going to have to keep a close eye on her. Well, a _closer_ eye. 

Brienne is regarding him in a way that makes him wonder if he should add mind-reading to the list of her many talents. 

"I'm _fine_ ," she says firmly. "But I think I want some ice cream."

Considering everything she's done for him, and everything she is to him, Jaime would willingly offer up the moon on a plate if she expressed a wish for it—but ice cream is definitely easier.

"I'll get it," he says.

Brienne bites down on what looks suspiciously like a smile. "What about if we both get it?" she suggests, and, without waiting for an answer, swings her legs over the side of the bed and gets to her feet. Soon she's dressed in shorts and t-shirt, though she doesn't bother with her bra. With the benefit of hindsight, _that_ suddenly makes a lot more sense, too.

How much else has he missed?

He approves of the shorts—he definitely doesn't fail to notice those—particularly when she bends over to retrieve the clothes she'd been wearing earlier from the floor.

She straightens up, turns—and catches him watching her. Her cheeks flush delightfully, and Jaime has no choice but to get up off the bed so that he can kiss her.

"Ice cream," Brienne reminds him after a while.

"Ice cream _first_ ," he counters, and she flushes all over again.

Jaime has to make himself step back and look for his own clothes. He puts his trousers back on and shrugs into his shirt, not bothering with anything else or even with doing up more than a shirt button or two. When he gets to his feet, it's to find Brienne watching him, her gaze straying down from his face.

"Ice cream," he reminds her, and is rewarded with an instant wild blush. Jaime grins, and comes over to kiss her some more.

It's only as he picks up his phone on the way out of the bedroom some little while later that he realises that the text to his driver is still waiting to be sent. Jaime shoots it off to him, and silently resolves to have Brienne moved into his apartment by the end of the week.

The kitchen is small, and there's just enough space at the tiny kitchen island for two large people to sit side by side. Brienne retrieves a small container of double chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer. It's the only one there is, so they get a spoon each and share. Brienne closes her eyes in bliss at the first taste of it, and Jaime swallows hard and makes a mental note to keep his freezer well-stocked with chocolate ice cream from now on.

He watches as she takes another spoonful of ice cream, taking her time, savouring it. It's so easy to watch her, whether she's eating ice cream in shorts and t-shirt in her kitchen late at night, or standing beside him in the light of day, armoured in business clothes and ready to take on the world for what she believes is right. Brienne, the woman he loves.

The mother of his child.

He has to remind himself to breathe. Of all the revelations of this extraordinary day, this one seems the most unlikely of all. And yet people get pregnant all the time. It happens every day—to other people. He-

They only have a few seconds' warning, a sudden jangle, followed by the click of a key turning in the lock on the front door, before they're no longer alone. 

The door opens, and Sansa Stark walks in, dressed for a night out in town and digging for something in her handbag. "There was a limousine pulling away downstairs when I came in, Brienne. Was it something to do with y-" She looks up and the words die on her lips. 

"Surprise!" Jaime says, waving his spoon at her in greeting. 


End file.
